


Heart Strings

by HastaLux



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 10:07:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14258667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HastaLux/pseuds/HastaLux
Summary: For the following prompt by @221bloodnun:Lestrade has been working cases with the younger Holmes brother for several years, by the time he was called in to check on him in the Baskerville situation. He wasn’t entirely sure how Sherlock knew that Mycroft had recruited him to watch over things or how much further Sherlock thought it had gone. Sometimes, it got to Greg that he might viewed as being used, as being just a handler, a puppet on strings. Fortunately, he had Mycroft to remind him why he was perfect, and not just for leg work on cases. A Mystrade prompt for @hastalux





	Heart Strings

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to @egmon73, @wakingthewindstorm, @notjustamumj, and @lilynevin for beta-ing, and @221bloodnun for the prompt and beautiful moodboard.

 

“Lestrade.” Greg balanced the phone against his shoulder. He’d only barely gotten to the door of his flat but his team knew he would be arriving back today. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility for them to call him right away if a case was being difficult, and he hadn’t gotten a glimpse at the caller name while trying to drag his luggage and extract his phone from his pocket at the same time.

The voice on the phone was not one of his team, however. “Gregory.” Ah. There was one other person who would know as soon as he got back in the country, if he was looking. Which apparently he was. Greg’s brow lifted.

“Mycroft. What’s your brother done now?”

“Making deductions, Gregory?”

Greg dragged his suitcase in, gently kicking his door closed with the sole of his shoe. “You called me seconds after I’ve gotten back from holiday- we’re going to have words about your people keeping an eye on that CCTV camera across the street, by the way- and I doubt I’ve suddenly got clearance to look at any national crises other than the ones Sherlock causes. So, yeah, consider it a deduction.” Greg heard Mycroft make a low noise of approval. 

“Quite astute, Inspector.” Greg frowned. His title never quite sounded as nice as when Mycroft used his full name, which is something he had been trying not to psychoanalyze too much since he’d been spending a fair bit of time with Mycroft since his marriage finally imploded. And it usually meant he wanted something that was going to annoy Greg. “I am hoping you would be amenable to extending your holiday a bit.”

Greg glanced at his bag and sighed. “I haven’t got many more days off to take, you know.”

“It will be on official business, at least as far as your Superintendent is concerned. No vacation days required.” Greg frowned deeper. Holmes-related cases were always interesting, and he admittedly enjoyed his, er- well, it _started_ as chats- with Mycroft. But he really shouldn’t let them constantly override his official and (under)paying job, particularly by lying to his superiors about what he is up to…. “Why don’t you come by and we’ll discuss it.” Mycroft’s tone had shifted into the same low purr that had, almost two months back, resulted in Greg enduring a great deal of ribbing from Sally about wearing the same outfit two days in a row. The man was a menace, needed to have his voice registered as a deadly weapon- still, Greg was grinning about it. He wandered toward the window and pulled the curtain aside. A black car was already pulled up outside, windows dark. 

Greg stared pointedly at the CCTV camera across the street, which had somehow aimed itself toward his flat. “Awfully confident, aren’t we, Mr. Holmes?”

“Get in the car, Inspector.”

***

The car let him out in front of a fairly nondescript but remarkably secure looking building. Greg knew where he was going, and the security guard in the front opened the door without prompting- Greg’s ID did not need to be checked. He was expected. The swivel of the lobby camera added to the effect that Greg was being surveilled and his presence thoroughly noted without a word being said. He refrained from rolling his eyes. Mycroft was a bit of a show-off, not that Greg would ever tell him that. Or mention that he kind of liked it.

He took the lift up. There weren’t any buttons, just a pad for keycards. Greg assumed one of Mycroft’s minions interceded to guide him to the correct floor, as although he’d been there before he was never given a card. It let out into a long hallway. Mycroft’s office was at the end. Anthea and several lesser underlings occupied the spaces before it. Only Anthea ever greeted him, the rest acted like they couldn’t even see him. Likely they were paid to see very little outside of their computer screens. 

The heavy oak door gave way to Greg’s hard push, no knock required. He didn’t need to, not with Mycroft following his every move by video, and Anthea would stop him if Mycroft was on the phone with one of the various global powers. Mycroft glanced up at him and tucked a small stack of paperwork into a folder, a tight grin lurking just at the edge of his lip. “Gregory.”

The way Mycroft said his name always put him in danger of melting immediately through the floor, but Greg tried to put on his best grinning front about it. “Mycroft.” They had never quite gotten around to discussing what their arrangement was, but Greg felt fairly certain melting was not meant to be part of it. So instead he slowly meandered around Mycroft’s desk and slowly, lightly traced his fingertips from Mycroft’s shoulder to the sensitive spot just below his ear, along the edge of his hairline and around to the matching spot below his other ear, and back over his shoulder. He felt the slight hitch in Mycroft’s breath and smiled. This was fair play in Greg’s book. Mycroft could drive him to distraction with his voice alone, so Greg enjoyed riling him up a bit before Anthea interrupted with the coffee and tea. Greg was by the other wall admiring a painting when she did, turning to offer her a smile as Mycroft thanked and dismissed her.

Greg returned to the chair he was meant to be sitting in to sip his frankly amazing coffee. The stuff had almost ruined him on the swill at the Yard since his divorce as his meetings with Mycroft saw a sudden spike in frequency. “So what’s the case?”

“Have you heard of Baskerville?”

Greg had, vaguely. Stuff in the news, at any rate. Mycroft gave him the details; the military base, Sherlock’s pilfering of his badge, the possibly mad young man they were assisting. “You will need to sign a bit of paperwork regarding the Official Secrets Act, of course.”

“Sherlock and John sign that too, did they?”

Mycroft made a face at him. “My brother is a lost cause on that point, but it would not go amiss if you reminded Doctor Watson that matters of national security are not to go on his blog.”

“Not a problem. Though… classified military base and all, why don’t you want to go yourself?”

“Legwork is not my usual preference, though in this case it is more to do with an... ongoing matter I must remain in London to supervise.” 

That made Greg arch a brow. “Ongoing like- nah, you can’t tell me anyway, can you. Is it-”

“It’s not terrorism,” Mycroft said, intuiting Greg’s question easily. “Just… supervision of a delicate matter.” He sipped his tea. “I think it may be advisable for you to bring your personal weapon as well. There are some unusual factors in this case.”

Greg stared at him, his brow slowly rising further. “You want me to take a gun onto a classified military base?”

“Perhaps not onto the base itself, but- as a precaution.” 

_Hell of a precaution._ He didn’t even usually carry a service pistol when he was on duty. But if Mycroft thought it was best… he probably shouldn’t question the man who more or less ran the British government. Greg leaned back. “Alright.”

Mycroft mostly hid his smile in his tea. “Thank you, Gregory.”

Greg took another long sip of coffee and set the rest aside. He rose and wandered around Mycroft’s desk, planting his arse on it just on the edge, right beside Mycroft’s chair. Mycroft gave him the once-over, and Greg watched him do it out of the corner of his eye. “That’s terribly uncivilized, Gregory.”

“You like a bit of uncivil, Mycroft.” Greg reached over and fingered the end of Mycroft’s poshly patterned tie. The corner of Mycroft’s lip quirked up and he pushed back his chair. Greg slid over so he was resting on the desk right in front of Mycroft.

He tugged the tie forward. Mycroft sighed- he did so like to pretend to be put out by Greg’s advances, though Greg knew damn well he enjoyed them- and slid his hands onto Greg’s knees.

Greg grinned. One hand on the tie, he slid the other behind Mycroft’s head and into the the soft ginger hair at his nape. He brought Mycroft’s lips up to meet his own.

Mycroft’s hands wandered up his thighs, thumbs skimming over the line of fabric covering the soft skin alongside the burgeoning portion of Greg’s trousers and up to his belt, flicking back and forth over the leather, then onto the cotton of his shirt.

“Myc…” Greg breathed against the other man’s mouth, praying that he could keep Mycroft all to himself for at least an hour. _Christ._ For all that Greg liked to wind Myc up, he could retaliate in a span of seconds. 

And he was _perfect._

Greg let go of the tie and put both his hands against Mycroft’s cheeks, kissing him as fiercely and as deeply as he could manage. Myc rose up against him, hanging on to his waist as he pressed Greg back and down onto the desk- there was a wide enough empty space in the middle that Greg didn’t need to worry about running into his own coffee or upsetting Myc’s notes on some trade treaty, which happened the last time they got a bit feisty in his office. _Oh my god, he was planning this, right in the gap between his papers. Incorrigible. Amazing._

_Mine,_ the part of him that didn’t want to deal with the lack of definition between them added. He’d have to deal with that at some point. Not now. Definitely not now.

When their lips broke free of each other Greg realized Myc had gotten his wrists against the desk, not tightly, just enough to give him a bit of tension. Myc was staring at him, pupils wide, looking almost lost for words. “Gregory, I-”

The desk intercom went off. 

Greg almost jumped out of his skin. “Bloody hell.”

Mycroft frowned as he pulled back and pressed the reply button. “Yes?”

“That matter you asked me to keep an eye on is progressing, sir.” Anthea. Of course. Probably the bloody Prime Minister.

“Very good. Have the car readied.” Mycroft let the button go and sighed, looking over his cooling tea and very much not at Greg.

Greg sat up, righting the state of his shirt. “S’alright, Mycroft. Good of the country and all.”

“Mmm.” He took another breath, then rose to his full height and marched off for his coat. “I’ll send you any updates I receive on Sherlock’s status. Do feel free to finish your coffee, but I am afraid this is a matter of some urgency and I must-”

“Don’t worry about it.” Greg put on a smile, attempting to breathe his heart-rate back into something resembling normal. How Myc always- _always_ \- managed to simply switch back into work-mode at the drop of a hat was alarming. 

He didn’t _need_ the coffee, not with all the adrenaline in his system, but it was _good coffee_ so he chugged the remainder. It felt like a waste not to savor it, but then again it would hopefully spare him needing any of the Yard’s swill later.

When he looked up from ensuring his trousers were still decent and slipping his jacket back on, he caught Mycroft looking at him, scarf in hand, umbrella draped over one arm. “I shall… have a car sent to you, to bring you to the train.”

“Cheers. I’ll shoot you a text when I’m ready.”

“Very good.”

***

According to Mycroft’s information Sherlock and John had already nosed around the local inn so Mycroft had booked Greg there as well. He waited in the bar getting regular texts from Mycroft regarding Sherlock’s movements (one of the few times Greg wasn’t planning to complain about Mycroft’s abuse of the CCTV system.) He sipped his drink and tried very hard to put his smirk away as the familiar tones of Sherlock and John drifted in from outside.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Greg continued forcing a smile at Sherlock, though he could already tell this was going to be a frustrating day. “Well, nice to see you too. I’m on holiday, would you believe?”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

Unsurprising. Greg turned his attention to the more amiable of the pair. “Hello John.”

“Greg.”

“I heard you were in the area. What are you up to? You after this hound of hell like on the telly?”

Sherlock looked like he was lining up for a bit of strop. “I’m waiting for an explanation, Inspector. Why are you here?”

“I’ve told you, I’m on holiday.”

The younger Holmes’s eyes narrowed. “You’re as brown as a nut, you’re clearly just back from your holidays.”

Greg kept up the pretense, really only because Mycroft had asked him to and Sherlock usually reached maximum levels of irritation when it came to deducing elements of Greg and Mycroft’s… whatever it was they were doing. He’d probably deduce it anyway but just in case…. “Yeah, well, I fancied another one.” Yeah, he was definitely going to deduce it anyway. _Three, two..._

“Oh, this is Mycroft, isn’t it?” 

Greg sighed to himself and turned back to his drink. “Now, look-“

“Of course it is. One mention of Baskerville and he sends down my _handler,_ ” Greg resisted the urge to roll his eyes, “to spy on me incognito. Is that why you’re calling yourself Greg?” 

John, bless him, looked affronted on Greg’s behalf while Greg glared over the top of his ale. “That’s his name.” 

“Is it?” How Sherlock managed to know so much yet completely miss relevant details of humans he saw at least weekly, Greg would never understand. Although at this point he could be doing it on purpose just to keep up his reputation of being a complete tosser. 

“Yes,” Greg hissed in irritation, “if you’d ever bother to find out. Look- I’m not your handler.” He turned back to the bar and his drink. “And I don’t just do what your brother tells me,” he added in a lower mutter.

Every time. Every bloody time Mycroft asked him to babysit, Sherlock cottoned on within minutes and made it bloody fucking miserable. Greg should know better by now. He should be able to say no. 

Greg could feel Sherlock winding up to launch into some rant about how Greg actually enjoys doing what Mycroft tells him a great deal, but John blessedly cut him off. “Actually, you could be just the man we want.” John had learned a thing or two: receipts, meat in a vegetarian establishment, etc; and between him and Sherlock they filled Greg in before setting the manager and the chef down for questioning. It seemed relatively minor, the way John had worked it out- no murder or sordid conspiracies, just two blokes making extremely poor choices. Greg started to relax. Perhaps Mycroft had overblown things with the gun, just being protective. He did tend a bit toward the dramatic. 

“You realize this isn’t strictly legal,” Greg murmured to Sherlock as John got the pair of probable miscreants settled. “I don’t have jurisdiction.”

“Please, you’re hardly even here as a person. You are only here as Mycroft’s… appendage. He won’t let a part of himself go to prison.”

Greg eyed him, lips pursed until he felt confident he wasn’t going to respond to that in a more aggressive fashion. “Part of that was very nearly poetic, Sherlock. ‘Course the rest is drivel. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.”

“Of course you would. Your leash leads all the way back to London. Give it a tug sometime. See what happens.”

With a roll of his eyes Greg marched off to question the pair of men, because it was that or give Sherlock a good smack and he had a feeling John would take issue with the latter. There was no point in engaging with Sherlock on this subject, but he wasn’t Mycroft’s lapdog, dammit. He didn’t just show up at Sherlock’s cases because Mycroft had him trained. Sherlock should know that, after all Greg knew him first. It was Greg who shepherded the younger Holmes through his manic propensity for drug abuse, not Mycroft. Mycroft didn’t give Sherlock cases, didn’t give him access to Barts. Sherlock always had to push his buttons though, especially where Mycroft was concerned, no trace of a “thanks for not letting me die from an overdose all those times over the years” in sight. Git. It was making him frustrated with the two idiots he was questioning as well- though they were somewhat deserving of his strained temper given what they’d been up to.

Gary and Billy rolled right over on themselves, more or less happy to confess. Greg got even more fed up as they talked despite how quickly they gave themselves up. Just a joke? Some joke. He needed to get out of there before the urge to smack them both upside the head won out. “Yeah, hilarious. You’ve nearly driven a man out of his mind,” he growled at them before storming out of the room.

John followed him. He always seemed to have a sense for when someone needed calming, and Greg had to admit he was usually glad of it, even if it was usually applied to Sherlock and not himself. “You know he’s actually pleased you’re here?” Greg shot him a look indicating his massive amount of skepticism regarding this supposed fact. “Secretly pleased,” John amended.

Too irritated to be bothered to dig further but mollified enough that he could wrap it up with something of an amiable front at least for John’s sake, Greg takes their word that they believe Gary and Billy about the dog and leaves them be, slipping away to his hotel room to text Mycroft and reinsert the feeling of London into his lungs by way of several cigarettes.

_(Sent) Sherlock thinks it was two men with a dog. Seems to be resolved. I’ll need a train ticket back._

_(Received) Unlikely. He has just asked for additional clearance. He is going back to the base._

“Bollocks,” Greg grunted at his phone.

_(Received) Remain there. He may require additional assistance._

Greg glared. Remain there, indeed. No, he’s had quite enough of the Holmes family sociability issues today.

_(Sent) No._

Greg counted to ten in his head before his phone pinged again.

_(Received) Explain “no.”_

_(Sent) If he wanted me to join him on the base he would have asked. He doesn’t need me. I don’t need to hang about and wait on his beck and call._

Greg was unsurprised when approximately fifteen seconds after he hit send his phone began to ring. “Yes?”

“Gregory.” There was a long pause. Greg wondered if Mycroft was trying to analyze him through the phone, or if he was attempting to pull up the local Baskerville CCTV to nose in. “What is the matter?”

“He doesn’t need help, Mycroft, that’s all.”

Another pause. “Gregory….”

“Leave it. He’s fine.”

Mycroft sighed. “That may be, but you do not sound… fine.” He pronounced the last word like it was some sort of foreign concept, which it quite possibly was. Greg was never sure how much understanding of a normal person’s daily life Mycroft had.

“I’m….” No, there was no good way to discuss feelings with Mycroft Holmes. He’d probably just sneer at the mere concept of-

“Sherlock said something... rude, didn’t he?”

-or he could just deduce it. Greg rubbed his temple. The whole situation was giving him a headache. “Yes.”

“Was it… regarding me?”

Greg blinked. “Now how could you possibly deduce-”

“You are never short with me, Gregory.”

_Ah. Fuck._ Mycroft and Sherlock could deduce a room at a glance and find a killer from a single strand of thread, but Greg could read _people._ And it sure as hell just sounded like he had hurt Mycroft’s feelings. _Bloody hell._ “I… didn’t mean to be. Sorry Myc.” He cringed. He didn’t usually abbreviate Mycroft’s name, at least not to his face.

“Whatever Sherlock said, you know I trust you, Gregory. Yes?”

“Yeah.” Greg exhaled. “I do, Mycroft, yeah.”

“My brother is not… he does not have the capacity to explain to others the esteem with which he holds them. He is far better suited for disparagements. But Doctor Watson is correct, he is pleased you are there.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Oh my god, you are looking at the CCTV again. You need a hobby.”

“It is my hobby, and you are smiling, so I shall keep it.”

He almost fell out of the bed getting to the window. There it was, a camera just opposite, meant to be trained on the road, no doubt. Greg waved at it. “You’re a bloody voyeur, Mycroft.”

“As you said, Gregory. Hobby.” Mycroft cleared his throat. “There is, sadly, another matter to which I must attend. Will you stay another day, at least? I have arranged for Sherlock to be granted twenty-four hour’s access to Baskerville. If he cannot solve the matter in that time he will no longer have the clearance to investigate on the base, so he should be less….”

“Likely to end up in military prison?”

“Quite.”

“Alright. I’ll give it a day.”

“Thank you, Gregory.”

*****

He got the call when it was growing dark. And Sherlock told him to bring a gun.

Maybe Mycroft knew what he was about after all.

He had a solid memory of arriving in the hollow, running to find them since he didn’t know exactly what he’d be heading into. Then things got… weird. Off-kilter. Greg had never liked how he felt under the influence of anything mind-altering, not even laughing gas for dental, and this was… bad. There was the dog- who seemed much more than a dog, but Greg checked later and it was definitely just a dog. 

He’d shot at it.

He’d missed.

John didn’t, though. Greg tried not to feel too jealous of that. John had a hell of a lot more firearms training than he did.

There was a scuffle in keeping Henry off the man- the doctor? Didn’t matter, Greg would get the details off John later- where something wrenched in Greg’s wrist. He ignored it, working on adrenaline and whatever the drug was doing to him.

The dog got up. Didn’t it? John was a fast draw, he had two shots off before Greg even had his handgun out.

Running in the dark. Chasing the scientist up to the Baskervilles minefield.

Can’t arrest a corpse. 

Doctor Stapleton watched over the lot of them as they came off the drug, trying to ensure they weren’t exposed to any stimulus that would influence them too severely. She’d gotten someone to come brace his wrist- just a sprain, but he’d still have to mind it for a bit. He could already hear Donovan’s voice needling him about how he somehow managed to hurt himself on holiday, of all places. He texted Mycroft while he was waiting, once he was sure the initial effects of the drug were past. 

_(Sent) Wrapped up case, mad scientist, dead now_

_(Sent) Coming back first train_

_(Sent) Sorry if you were asleep_

Sherlock seemed to be angling to take advantage of the situation. First he tried to convince John that there was indeed another hound still lurking in the lab- apparently there been some to-do about that earlier- but Stapleton shooed him off. Then Sherlock wandered toward Greg. “Lestrade. Have you had a chance to check in with my dear brother yet?”

Greg shot him a warning look. That he’d made the effort to was negated by the fact that Mycroft was probably in bed. “No.”

“Wondering if you might tell him I’ll be keeping his clearance badge. Because it’s mine now.” He was speaking in an odd tone of voice and dangling the badge, swinging it in front of Greg’s face.

“Are you trying to hypnotize me?” Greg asked incredulously.

Sherlock dropped the badge. “Mmm, it’s worn off too much now, hasn’t it. Well, it was worth a shot. But I imagine you could convince Mycroft- ah, no, wait. You just let Mycroft convince you, hmm?” His smile had grown very smug all of a sudden.

_Yeah, no. We’re done with this line of bollocks._ Greg smiled back icily and dipped his voice into a whisper as he leaned forward. “I know you think this is fun and all because you enjoy tormenting your brother, but if you bring me into your stupid rivalry on that count I’ll tell John exactly how you look at him when he’s not looking back. What do you think he’ll _deduce_ about that?”

Sherlock went pale. “You wouldn’t.”

“Mycroft doesn’t harass John about you. You don’t harass me about Mycroft. It’s not that hard.” Greg stood and thumped him on the shoulder as the taller man eyed him warily. “Pleasure doing business, Holmes. Think I’ll catch an early train back.” He kept the urge to laugh down. He didn’t usually have the opportunity to unsettle Sherlock. He’d need to save the mental image of Sherlock’s face, it would serve him well the next time the younger Holmes did something idiotic like absconding with evidence or defiling a corpse. 

***

The next available train was early the next morning, and Greg had no interest in staying around a second longer than was necessary. Greg went back to his hotel room and caught a brief four hours before he dragged himself over to the station and garnered about three more in his seat, forehead pressed to the window. He still felt cottony in the head when he arrived, blinking his way out into the midday sun to find a dark car waiting for him, the window rolled down.

He grinned and sauntered toward the window, but he was surprised when it was Anthea peering out at him. “Ah. Didn’t expect to see you.” Suppose it would have been too much to hope Mycroft would spare the time to come himself. Ah well. 

“Mmm. I heard you had a late night.”

“Did you now.” Greg really didn’t think Mycroft mentioned him to… anyone, actually, whenever he’d sent cars before it had been a rotating crop of silent drivers, but he supposed if anyone would be aware it would be Anthea. Greg suspected she didn’t miss much.

“I’m to see you home.” She shifted over so he could get in, nose back in her phone and typing before he even had the door closed. “How’s the wrist?”

“S’fine. How’s, uh, protecting the country or whatever it is you’re up to these days?”

Anthea didn’t even glance up. “Oh, just fine.” 

She typed away while the car moved, Greg trying not to succumb to the comforting hum of the road sent him into a nap in the car. He didn’t want to admit it, but this sort of thing had been wearing him down more as he got older. People always joked they needed a vacation from their vacation, but he’d had one and really he just wanted to sleep in his own bed for a week.

When he got in he dumped his bag next to the couch and tilted right over into the cushions. He’d just close his eyes for a bit and-

He awoke with a start as all his internal alarms went off indicating a presence in his flat. Greg snapped up and promptly fell off the couch when his braced wrist didn’t take his weight, falling gracelessly into his own coffee table.

“Ow.”

Mycroft’s face appeared over him looking vaguely concerned. “Gregory?”

“Hi.” Greg blinked at him. “Did you break into my flat?”

A ginger brow arched at him. “That would be quite rude, wouldn’t it.” 

“Yeah. Have to arrest you, n’all. Be a shame.”

“Quite.” He extended a hand. Greg took it with his good one and hauled- Mycroft had to brace himself on the couch to take his full weight. They both ended up standing slightly awkwardly by the couch and Greg was reminded that the only times they’d been in each other’s homes previously they had already been pretty clear about what was happening before they got there (usually in the backseat of one of Mycroft’s endless supply of anonymous vehicles.) There wasn’t much… chatting. And then whoever didn’t live there… left. Back to their normal lives. 

He blinked and shook his head. Mycroft was watching him, head canted. “Sorry. Hi. How was… not-terrorism, or whatever you were up to?”

“All done with.” Mycroft pointed to the kitchen counter, where was a stack of carryout containers. “I brought dinner.”

“So you did. Did you call? Sorry if I missed it.”

“No, but you hadn’t moved in several hours, I thought it was unlikely you’d eaten.”

“Honestly. Lay off the CCTV.” 

“I think not.” He nodded to Greg’s wrist. “Sherlock didn’t mention that.”

“You spoke with him?”

“Only long enough for him to list the synonyms for “interfering” and “overbearing.” Was he the cause?”

“What, you didn’t tap the military’s CCTV?” Mycroft made a face at him. “Ah, different system, is it? Well, can’t have everything.” Mycroft folded his arms. _Ah, the very serious Mycroft. The scourge of Whitehall, no doubt._ Fortunately Greg was less easily intimidated. “Nah, wasn’t him. Just did something funny to it wrenching that kid- Sherlock’s client- off the idiot who killed his dad. Who then blew himself up, so I suppose we could have let the kid have him.”

“Mmm.” Mycroft held his gaze. “Do you… need anything for it?”

“Er… no, maybe a painkiller if I fall on it again. Just supposed to leave it alone, mainly.” This was odd. Greg wasn’t used to Mycroft being… gentle? It was nice to see. He hadn’t been sure the man really came with a warm and comforting side. “What’d you get to eat?”

“Indian. From the establishment ‘round the corner, I believe you order there fairly frequently.”

Greg’s eyes narrowed. “Are you reading my receipts through my windows?”

“Goodness no, we don’t yet have the capability for that sort of magnification. I did notice several containers yet to be cleared away when last I was here.”

So the usual form of stalking and not the Mycroft-extra-special-stalking-package. Greg shook his head and grinned. “You know if you told me the cameras worked that well I’d believe you.”

“I know.” Mycroft stepped closer and smiled thinly, but Greg had the feeling it was a bit forced. “The… substance you were exposed to? No ill effects?”

“No, though I think I’ll be keeping away from dogs for a bit. It’s potent, that stuff, but they said it doesn’t make you hallucinate so much as let your imagination get the better of you.” Greg shrugged. “S’pose I’m lucky I’m not a creative type.” 

Mycroft reached out, his hand brushing against Greg’s day-old stubble. “I’m glad it wasn’t… I was worried for you, when I heard.”

Greg put his hand over Myc’s, warming it. “I’m perfectly fine.”

The taller ginger shook his head. “I could have sent a tactical team. Gas masks and rifles.”

“You could’ve, but Sherlock wouldn’t have told them anything. Would’ve just worked it out on his own and left them out of it.”

Mycroft brought up his other hand to match the first. “Neither of us deserve you, Gregory. Neither Sherlock or myself.”

“No such thing as deserving another person, Myc. There’s only who you want to be with.”

Greg closed the gap between them. When their lips met it was gentle. Mere touches. But Myc pulled Greg closer, his tongue yearning. And Greg was more than happy to slide right into it, give back as much passion as he got.

Usually when they broke apart it was because they were about to topple onto the closest flat bit of furniture. 

This time, Myc just pulled him in and held him. Stroked the back of his head and wrapped a firm arm about his back.

“I was worried,” Myc said after a while. “I worried about you.”

“Myc, I’m fine, I promise.”

“I was busy with- other things, important things, but I should have- I should have been able to prevent-”

“You can’t be everywhere, Myc.”

Mycroft sighed into his ear. “I feel I let you down, Gregory. Your wrist, exposure to this drug- I am not given to sentiment, but-”

“It’s fine. It’s fine, love.” Greg felt the word slip before he could stop it. _Ah, shit, Lestrade, you’ve done it now._ Mycroft had pulled away from his neck, and Greg took a calming breath before he chanced a look up.

Mycroft’s pupils had blown so wide that his eyes looked black. 

“Oh,” Greg breathed.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied.

They very nearly didn’t make it to the bedroom. 

Greg couldn’t manage buttons that easily with the splint on, so he had the luxury of simply watching as Myc divested himself of his vest and shirt after Greg pulled his own off. Then Myc removed his trousers in a painfully slow yet highly erotic fashion. Greg felt a bit light-headed, honestly, like maybe he’d wake up and find himself drooling into the couch cushions any moment, because that was far better than any strip-tease he’d seen and Myc wasn’t even putting on a show.

When Myc went for Greg’s trousers as well he wondered if he might faint. Mycroft could be assertive, but he wasn’t usually… forceful. Forceful, as it turned out, was something Greg was very alright with, especially when Mycroft took him in his mouth and did something back-archingly good with his tongue. “Myc,” he growled, his voice deepening in lust. He could see Mycroft’s eyes watching him from between his own legs, a perfectly obscene image he planned to treasure for an age and one that made him groan quite loudly. 

But Greg preferred their pleasure more combined, as pretty of an image as Mycroft made. “Myc- Myc, come up here, love, I wa- hnng- I want-”

“Tell me, Gregory.” Mycroft kissed his way up Greg’s stomach, which was doing nothing for Greg’s concentration.

“Together- please, Myc, I need to see you- with me-”

Mycroft nuzzled into his neck, perfectly understanding Greg’s meaning as he wrapped them both in one strong hand, one thumb brushing over his own tip and spreading the fluid over both of them. His strokes were just to Greg’s speed, an easy thing to deduce seeing as Greg was rutting against him. “Myc- Myc, I’m nearly there, love-

“I know, Gregory, let me see you- love-” That hesitant addition does him in. Greg is undone to his core, enough that it takes him what feels like a full minute of breathing to return to himself.

Mycroft is there, stroking his cheek. “Shall I clean you up?”

“Not before I’ve had my fill.” Because it did not escape his notice that only one of them fully benefited from Mycroft’s broad handspan and Greg, while very blissed out himself, was not about to see Mycroft depart his bed without the pleasure of undoing him completely.

He wraps his arms about the taller man and rolls, flipping Myc onto his back. “Greg, you’re tired, you don’t have to-”

“I had a nap, I’m sure I can manage.” Greg licks his way down, enjoying the little gasping noises Myc makes, the way his body responds to every touch. He was terribly responsive, not that any of those straight-laced government types he worked with would ever be able to guess. That was Greg’s secret to keep alone, and one he planned to make use of at every opportunity. 

The moan Myc let out when Greg set his licking to more eager areas was beautiful, and Greg pulled out every trick he could think of to elicit more, fingers braced and kneading into Myc’s perfectly padded arse. “Gr- Gregory- nearly-” Greg had no intention of stopping. The heat down the back of his throat was a victory. 

He smiled as Mycroft took an indulgent moment to simply lay there, sated. Greg rose and slipped into the bathroom, acquired a towel to clean them both up with. “So. Dinner? Probably still… warmish.”

“Warmish is acceptable, under the circumstances.”

When he gets into the kitchen, he notices what he hadn’t seen earlier- a small overnight bag, not his own, set by the door. “Mycroft- are you…?”

Myc pauses in his rummaging through the carryout. “Ah- yes, I did mean to inquire, but I was… distracted. Unless you-”

“No- please. I’d love to have you stay.” Greg grins. “Though you should brace yourself, I’m definitely planning to shag you utterly senseless before either of us gets any sleep.” He takes a peek out the window. The camera is turned away. Excellent. Greg has some very specific ideas about defiling his living room set as well.

“Mmm, I suppose I can live with insensibility.”

Greg grinned and carried Myc’s bag into the bedroom.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes of interest:
> 
> I rewatched all of Lestrade's parts in HoB several times, and the wrist injury is based on a movement he makes in the background of that scene at one point where he rubs his wrist in the universal sign of "I have done a thing and it hurts now." I don't think it was an acting choice, but I like the thought. Also he takes a really interesting stutter-pause on "I don't just do what your- brother tells me" that doesn't translate well to fic but is Very Interesting for Reasons, in my opinion.
> 
> Also I was thinking about Mycroft's side of this in the context of the stress of the "issue" he's dealing with in the background being, you know, playing mind games with Moriarty. So... that's fun.
> 
> Thanks for reading! You can reach me on Tumblr @hastalux


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